Penny for a thought
by Fairady
Summary: Somedays he'd give anything just make them stay quiet, but only somedays.


Disclaimer: I don't own Weiss Kreuz or it's characters. Don't sue, please? All I have on me right now is about twenty-five ryals and some haribos. You can have the money but I'll fight you for the German candy. 

Warning: Experimental drabble, language, some dark images. Hey, it's Schuldig. What'd you expect?

Notes: Didn't turn out exactly how I would've like it to. I had a really hard time transitioning between paragraphs. Please do comment and tell me your opinions on this. Thanks to Silver for betaing.

Penny for a thought  
by fairady

* * *

Sometimes, when it's late and dark and the only voice he can hear is his own, he wonders which one pushed him over the edge. Which one of the many minds he'd raped, the many he'd plunged into had worn away the last bit of his torn and battered sanity.

Was it one of the nameless masses that pressed so hungrily into him wherever he went? A mass that only remained nameless because he never cared enough to look, their thoughts so mundane that on more than one occasion he'd had to smash his own head into a wall just to get rid of them. If he wanted to be bored he could do it just fine on his own, he sure as hell didn't need the thoughts of millions to help him along that path.

Fucking cattle.

It was always the same. _Time to go to work/school/shopping/brothel._ Moo. _What a rude person, I'll just ignore him/her. Stupid cunt/prick, kill 'em for cheating on me._ Moo moo moo. They were all just a bunch of mindless animals. If there was one thing that he knew, it was that there was nothing more pathetic than mindless animals being herded along from one pasture to the next. Unaware of just how many others share their same exact thoughts. All. The. Damn. Time.

It was enough to make anyone go fucking bat shit insane.

Maybe it was one of the not so nameless people he supposedly worked for. A bunch of fat, greedy, perverted fucks who truly did have more money and power than they knew what to do with. That's why they always used it to try to get more, they simply had no idea what else to do. Them and their slimy, itty-bitty eyes crawling all over him, placing him in an infinite number of sexually perverted positions. Was it any wonder that when he was himself, and just himself, he preferred the good ole' fashioned missionary position? Few of them ever fantasized about the ordinary.

Just thinking about it made him want to scrape his brain with a brillo pad.

He'd done it once to someone; cracked their head open so carefully while they were tied down just so their thrashing wouldn't kill them right away. Gently peeled back the thin gossamer film and scraped the spongy mass smooth. It had been very pretty.

No, no. Not him. He shook off the stolen memory.

Now where was he?

The kittens, oh he couldn't forget the little white kitties and their pure and untarnished masks. They were so self righteous and holy in their black and white world. Ignoring the dried and flaking blood on their hands as they held up their murders with pride. Smiling in satisfaction over their so called 'justice' as they picked old, stinking blood from under their fingernails. Oh Weiss never failed to make him want to tear out his own blackened heart to show them how hypocritical they really were.

There was Aya, the sweet and cold Ran-kun, so angry and guilty that he'd closed himself down to everything except revenge. Revenge after revenge after revenge. Schuldig thought it was so nice how the kitty cat had conveniently forgotten that his own family wasn't quite as innocent and saintly as he liked to pretend. The sweet and loving mother; who'd loved the anonymity of hotel rooms, ever wonder where your red hair came from Ran-kun? The oh so wise father; who'd tried, rather unsuccessfully, to assassinate Takatori first. And of course the pure and loving sister; in a coma from being run over? More likely from the bad batch she'd just taken down the street. But that's okay, Schuldig knew the little illusions that kept him from slitting his own throat open.

Then there was Youji, with a sinful smile and tempting gait, so intent on loosing his memories of a woman, whether it be in another's body or another's blood. Speeches of morality hiding the fact that the blood was looking better and better with each kill. Wondering, each night, if this flirtation would end in a bed or in a Dumpster. How many times had Schuldig rode in that mind from one club to another just waiting for that one lay to turn to blood?

There was the sickeningly kind Omitichi-chan, who didn't even know why he killed anymore. God, if that boy lived he would grow up to be one truly fucked up person. Some days he thought about the boy and what a future he might have and could only laugh. Omi-chan's life was something you'd expect to find in the past of men like Albert Fish or Adolf Hitler. Poor pretty little boy. He would have been much better off if some pimp had picked him off the street instead of his loving uncle.

And of course there was Ken, what a joke. Sometimes he wondered how stupid the kitties were that they couldn't see Ken for what he really was. The fires that had scared his body hadn't only burned his flesh. They smoldered on in his mind, slowly consuming what little was left. How Schuldich loved playing hide and seek in that man's mind. Hiding in the ashes just like a mad man hiding behind his mask of normality. Who else but a psychopath would chose as their weapon something that would bring them so close to their victim?

So sweet the blood on his hands.

Sometimes Schuldich truly wondered what would happen if Weiss and Schwartz were to lock sweet Ken-kun up with mad Jei-kun. They'd both die surely, but he wasn't sure if it would be from blood loss or if they'd just fuck each other to death. Probably both.

Schwartz. His companion's, his comrades. They were too fucking close. Always so close, and it was so hard to tell if it was his thought or theirs.

There was the God damned American. Bradely had a stick the size of a tree stuck so far up his ass that it was no wonder he was always so bitchy. However, he did have a mind so calm and analytical that is was a welcome respite from the chaos that usually dragged Schuldig down. It was nice for a bit of balm if he didn't mind the freezing ice that spread through his mind slowly enveloping and shutting everything down, feeling himself crack a little more and fearing the slightest sound or vibration would shatter him into a million pieces. Every time he left Bradley's mind he always had to check himself to make sure nothing important had frozen off while he was inside.

Of course there was Nagi. Cute, cute kiddo. When this was all over with and there was no more Schwartz or Weiss he was sure Nagi-kun would make an excellent counterpart to Omi-chan. Poor kid was fucked from the minute he was dragged into this world. Kicking and screaming just like any other baby, up until the delivering doctor's head caved in, what a nice welcome. Was it any wonder the kid's thoughts were black and colored blood red? His subconscious was achingly dark, and swirled so prettily. Some days Schuldig was very tempted to throw himself into that black hole and see what was inside.

And then there was the last of their merry little troop, The mad Irishman. Really, what more was there to say than that? Farfarello's thoughts swirled constantly around him, a repetitive litany of prayers, curses, and death. Never lingering long on one point, the loose thoughts all braiding up and pointing toward one goal. Hurt God. _Hurt him, just hurt him, are you crying now, cry you liar._ Schuldig was never one for church but he still found himself waking up reciting psalms in Gaelic. It was getting harder and harder to separate his own thoughts from the mad man's, so hard.

It was so hard to tell which one did it. Which one of the multitude finally drove him mad. Just sitting and trying to figure it out made his head hurt. Such deep and bitter thoughts only made him depressed, maybe even enough to actually kiss the barrel of his gun. So he got up and dusted the ashes of his jeans before walking out. The best cure for thoughts like this was to go out and loose himself in the thoughts of others.

He isn't himself very often, because it's then that he knows the mind that drove him insane may very well be his own.


End file.
